


Encounters

by lizthefangirl



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bellamy PoV, Bellarke, Canon Compliant, Canon Divergent, Clarke pov, F/M, Josephine Lightbourne Possessing Clarke Griffin, Minor Violence, One Shot, Spec, Speculation, The 100 (TV) Season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-28 05:34:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19387531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizthefangirl/pseuds/lizthefangirl
Summary: 6.09 speculation. When the Children of Gabriel catch up with Bellamy and Josephine, a head injury prompts an unexpected reunion.





	Encounters

Bellamy didn't know a great deal about the people in the woods, the ones who were eager to behead any wayward Primes. The ones who may or may not have killed his sister by now.

If nothing else, Josephine served as a distraction from that grim notion.

He'd been aware that they were being followed for quite some time, figured she was, too. But none of them, including the ones lurking in the great strokes of shadow painted by the trees, seemed keen to act just yet; likely, they were trying to let exhaustion take hold. In their peculiar parlay, they'd even been able to stop for water and some berries. He'd simply tied her to a tree until she told him what was edible and what wasn't. 

So they trudged along into the night, both tired enough that they'd settled into spiteful silence. They were only joined by the crunch and crackle of the brush beneath their boots, the unrelenting clank of her chains—an angry edge of which had split his palms open when she tried to dash at one point, early on. He'd gritted his teeth against the fire and wrapped the links around his forearm tight enough to bruise, sending them both to the ground. 

She had developed a slight limp. His hands gave the metal a russet tint. He didn't let it slow them down.

* * *

Eventually, when he'd calculated roughly five or six hours had passed, he eyed a relatively bare clearing and brought them to a full-stop. 

There seemed little point in pretending to set up camp. So, disregarding Josephine's incredulous profanity, Bellamy said to the forest, arms up, "No need for those darts. No violence. We'll come willingly."

"We are _so_ dead," Josephine spat. 

"I have conditions," he continued, since no one responded. "I'm from Earth, and so is this woman, whose body was taken without her consent. She's dying." He hadn't heard it from anyone directly, but he was plainly aware of it. "She's running out of time. We need your help."

Josephine groaned, and he snapped the chain hard enough that she hissed. 

"You have my word. We won't try anything. Take us where you need to."

"Your _word_ ," a woman said from somewhere just above and behind him, "is not hers."

He didn't dare turn as they revealed themselves at last. Somewhat similar to the Grounders, really, or at least Azgeda—though these people bore gas masks. But they, too, adorned nature itself so that they might become it, for this very purpose. 

"I'm aware of that," he said drily. "Just please—consider the innocent woman trapped in her head."

"And the one who isn't innocent?" A man's voice demanded. "Which one are you, girl?"

_Well, shit._

"Don't," Bellamy strained. He wasn't sure to which he spoke.

Naturally, she grinned her imposter's grin. "How's dear old grand-pappy Gabriel doing? Is he quite dead? Did the trees suck him dry? A girl can dream."

_Shit._

"Josephine," the man growled, as if it were a most blasphemous curse. 

The group began to whisper around them—a larger number than he'd expected. 

_The daughter,_ one said. 

_Make it slow._

_Take her a piece at a time._

Josephine just sneered at them. "Pathetic, the whole lot of you. Running from your own history for one loony guy. You could have done great things in Sanctum—well, I _personally_ wouldn’t let you exist, so that’s more my dad’s line. I mean all you do now is screw in the bushes like animals and—"

Someone swung, and suddenly he only saw Clarke's head snapping back with a muffled crack. He bellowed, tried to lunge towards her, but iron-like hands and coarse ropes descended upon him, wrenching him back by the hair, forcing him onto his belly with a precise blow to the spine. He glimpsed a short, blackened cut on Clarke's temple, and roared again—until rough fabric plunged him into blindness and muteness, and their harrowing procession began.

* * *

Clarke was tired. 

That was probably a bad sign, given that she was only existing in her own subconscious. 

She was in the library—Josephine's library, which she now had access to during her invader's waking hours, due to Monty's cleverness (or was it her own?). Rummaging through her memories was particularly exhausting, for they were overwhelmingly sickening. In fact, they stitched a tapestry of wrath, indulgence, and above all, pride. She was a murderer, of course. But Clarke hadn't necessarily anticipated that she'd also be a rapist. A tyrant in all she did. Truly, a sociopath. 

Every time she dove out of a memory, she swore she felt her body deplete in response. It was true, then, that this was killing her. But she needed to have something, anything to wield against this person. 

She had finally devised a bit of a plan—one that she really hadn't needed all of this additional research for. It served as fodder, a dubious Plan B.

The trouble was, Josephine would try to stay awake. And if she went under for some reason, she'd find where to strike Clarke and take her down for good.

She was browsing somewhere deep in Josephine’s archives when a splitting shriek seemed to manifest in the very air around her. She gasped in pain, clamping down on her ears. It would have to be now, then.

Clarke began to sprint down the long aisle like she'd practiced, and once at full speed—

Her eyes closed. Her mind worked, furiously. 

When she opened them, she was in the blood-splattered diner. 

_Brilliant, wonderful Monty_ , she thought, stunned. 

It didn't guarantee the rest would work, but she stifled her worry and closed her eyes again, palms open. 

The radio appeared just as she'd pictured, utterly solid and real. _Like you're sketching it,_ he'd explained. _Remember, there's nothing normal about this place._

Clarke smacked it down onto the bar and twisted the dials too far, like she had accidentally done before on many occasions. 

The answering frequency was deafening. Maybe it was because she was dying, but she didn't particular mind it. Somebody else did, though.

Her skull struck against the table’s edge.

"You're _done_ ," Josephine snarled into her ear. " _Done_. Why don't you tap that word out to him, Clarke?"

It was difficult—almost impossible with her head pounding, but—

She stumbled as she landed by a booth some feet away. Josephine turned slowly, lip curling. "Took you long enough."

This was the hardest part, really. Standing down, taking hits. As if she'd only managed to jump across the space by accident. As if truly helpless, maybe even longing for the blows that wracked her body on all sides. 

_There's nothing normal about this place_.

She lost her breath with a kick to the ribs, and began. Focused on every point of pain, every ache that limned her—

And then, as if casting a line, she grabbed Josephine by the arm and _hurled it_ outwards, all of it, like a lethal blanket. 

Nothing normal up here. Not even pain. 

Josephine was screaming, ragged and mad, unable to focus on the twin injuries she now bore, so taken by the abrupt agony.

Clarke's own soreness didn't subside, but she was used to it. She didn't need to make a jump to the door. Merely scrambled and threw it open, dashing into blinding white—the massive steel padlocks, _ten_ of them, already in place. 

Because this wasn't Josephine's memory. Just a damned good copy of it.

* * *

They'd put them in a dim cave, lined with torches glowing more blue than gold and great manacles adorning the walls. 

He'd been placed inside first, though their rough treatment of him had ebbed slightly when he'd felt someone finger the wounds on his palms and the nape of his neck and mutter, "Red. No scar."

Then they'd brought her in, limp and dragging. They'd sliced his gag away, but he bit his lip hard enough that blood welled; he could only watch while they unceremoniously set her down, uncaring as she slumped onto her back, and attached the same heavy shackles around her wrists and ankles that he wore. He wanted them away from her before he spoke. "What now?" 

A man, whose face was quite thin but body appeared stocky with all of its dressing, cut him a flat look. Marginally worse than an outright glare. "We discuss how to proceed."

Bellamy's throat bobbed. "I don't know all that she's done, that any of them have. But I know enough, and I am so sorry. I'm begging you. . . If you’re above them, if there's a way to get Josephine out without killing my friend—"

"No way," the second man grunted, burlier than his companion. "They just recycle them as needed."

"We've all lost people," the first one added, though his voice remained terribly empty. "Your friend was young. I’m sorry."

"You don't understand," Bellamy heaved, "She's still in there, even Josephine has said so. She's—" 

"That's enough," the solemn one panned, almost at the crudely barred door. "Advice, child: Don't trust a word that bitch says. No matter whose mouth she's using."

"Please, you have to listen to me," he demanded, swearing quietly as they disappeared. "Dammit. _Dammit."_

His head lolled back against weathered stone, still icy despite the nearby flame. The soft hissing filled his head. His stomach suddenly churned, and he had to concentrate on keeping its contents where they were. 

When her chains clinked, he thought they were his own for a split second, before processing his stillness.

His head whipped around. The only visible movement, though, was that of her eyes roaming restlessly beneath her lids. 

Ebony trickled onto her cheek from her nose. 

He gaped, already aware that the restraints were too short. He couldn't reach her. Still, he moved until they were taut. "No."

He hadn't really considered it. That he might have to watch her die.

His knees buckled and he was on all fours, straining against the weight as her body began to shudder. 

"Help! _HELP!"_ he roared, throat raw. " _She's dying, please, she's—!"_

Josephine gasped, eyes flying open, and he heaved bile onto the cold floor, squeezing his eyes shut as her chains slowly chimed, shoes scuffing. 

Her silence should have been a blaring alarm, really. Then he heard soft, quaking sobs. The type pulled from the very depths of a person.

He lifted his head. She had stood up, her hands covering her mouth and nose as she gasped quietly.

He didn't rise smoothly. In fact, he had to brace himself on the wall, his split hands stinging. She'd lowered hers. 

Impossible. It was impossible how her face was wholly her own again. He'd been a fool to believe anything but this face.

"Don't have much time," she said, first dabbing at her nose, then wiping it clean, cheeks flushing a bit. 

Bellamy's voice had been stolen from him. Had she said anything but that, he'd have let it stay gone for a while longer. He would have them just like this, silent and alive and together. 

But he pulled it up by the root, strangled and hoarse. "I won't let you die."

She just studied him, expression gone so tender, a small smile on her mouth. It faded as she blinked down at her wrists. "She's killing them, isn't she?"

He drew a breath through his nose. Chagrin had laced his every step since Madi slipped from that room. "It's not her fault."

"No," Clarke said, "but she'll have to live with it."

"Not alone, though." He shook his head, just a bob—as if she'd be up in smoke should he take his eyes off her. "We'll be there when it's done. You will."

She hummed shortly—a wince, painful enough that she couldn't swallow the sound.

He wanted to touch her, then. Inexplicably so. 

"I don't want to live in a stolen body," she said. "I know you know that, but. . . If it's the only choice in the end, don't. Please."

He nodded, earnest. He couldn't pretend that he wouldn't have considered it if. . .

"Only choice," he murmured, grinning like an idiot.

Clarke returned it knowingly, a miraculous sight. "Oxymoron." 

"Mm-hm."

He felt as if it should be a grander exchange, but of course this is what they did with their one chance. Just talked like they talked. 

She seemed to think the same thing, smiling even as she dabbed at her nose again, quickly. "She knows about the Morse code."

"I figured."

"Hey. Bellamy?"

He stared at her, a new tightness in her tone making him shift. "I'm here."

"Yeah," she whispered. "But if I'm not—and I can really say that this time, you're gonna let me say it. If I go—"

"You’re wrong. It’s still a no," he rasped. "That would—it'd be the third time, the _third time_ I've lost you. 'Cause you've died before, you know." He tapped his temple. "I believed you were gone twice. I mourned you twice. I'm not doing it again anytime soon, not until you are old and wrinkly and have no teeth, understand?"

She was crying, the blood now flowing unchecked down her chin. 

And then it couldn't be "just talking" anymore. Because time itself slapped him upside the head, shattered something in him as he understood that could lose her a third and final time, and it could be this very day, or the one after that. It could be some sixty, seventy years out. But time was not kind or hateful, it was not merciful, it did not show emotion. 

People did.

"You told me," he said, "that I was important to you. That we were family. I should have told you then.” He nodded a bit, past the poison seeping somewhere, eyes wide. “I should have told you how much I love you, Clarke. And I wasted it, because I always have; but not now. No, I do love you—whatever it meant or means. . . Whatever it could mean. _That's_ how I love you, Clarke. And you're going to live—c’mere. Come here. "

She nodded as she wept, and approached him as much as her chains allowed. He was just able to clasp her fingertips. "Now you go back up there and _fight_. Stay with us, Clarke. Stay with me."

"I can't hold her."

"It's okay. It's okay—you're hurting yourself, you gotta let her out. I can handle her."

"Me too," she said thickly. Nodded.

“’Course you can."

“I meant—” She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply. "Me too—to all of it."

He blinked.

He _definitely_ wasn’t losing her again.

Bellamy held on to her desperately as her eyes rolled back. Managed to snag one of the chains as she fell—and before she hit the ground, a furious cry burst from her mouth.

"Oh, piss off," Josephine barked, yanking away. She spat black onto the floor, chest heaving. "That was. . . extremely stupid of her."

He had composed himself already, settling onto the ground. His brows rose. "Think the stupid part was anyone in the universe deciding that Clarke Griffin would go down like anybody else." He pinned her with a look. A rather violent smile. "I'm sure it is nice, for you to be out of that little chip. You'd better start savoring your final hours of that."

**Author's Note:**

> So this is such a longshot, but based on Bellamy's one line in the trailer, their surroundings, Clarke's expression—and a cut on her forehead... I had to wonder if it was Josephine he was saying that to. 
> 
> Also, this season? Very good. I like it a lot. 
> 
> As always, comments are wonderful gifts. Thank you guys for reading my writing and responding so beautifully!


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